


antimatter

by lacheses



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friendship, Introspection, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-09 01:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14706710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacheses/pseuds/lacheses
Summary: "A poem begins as a lump in the throat."- Robert FrostMagnus gets his magic back. He doesn't expect everything else that comes with it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my bff menckenschrestomethy for reading this over! Go check out her stuff [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorenzobane/pseuds/lorenzobane) and on [tumblr](http://lorenzobane.tumblr.com)!

 

**“I said to the sun**

**‘tell me about the big bang.’**

**the sun said, ‘it hurts to become.”**

**\- Andrea Gibson**

****_._

 

 ******PROLOGUE**

**SOMEWHERE IN SPAIN**

.

Magnus, who is not yet Magnus, leans his head against the cobblestone wall. He stares at the passerby, with their ruffled skirts grazing the street. The people here dress differently, all wound up with strings and bows, chains of their own making. If he’s lucky, with his eyes downcast, the shadows hide the hues of his skin and he passes for another one of the beggars. Then he gets the footnotes of meals - a torn off piece of bread, an apple half-soft. 

Nightfall is infinitely worse. There are wolves, real and imaginary, lurking in the shadows. Magnus can catch them circling the grassy field beyond the decrepit church he hides behind, their eyes glinting in the moonlight. He stares back sometimes, watching the wolves heads tilt as they see his eyes.

Usually Magnus wedges himself between the archways. He’s small enough to fit in the shallow relief, sleeping on the slant of the stone angel’s wings. The parishioners are long gone, but still Magnus doesn’t dare enter. The stone arches of the church, the _seraphim_ looking down their noses at him. It turns his stomach into knots, fills him with a guilt he can’t explain. 

The last rays of sunlight disappear, leaving violet streaks in the clear sky. Magnus looks up, whispering the names of the constellations in the order his mother taught him. Their Latin substitutes, helpfully provided by his father.

Cassiopeia. Orion. Perseus. What was the one with the meandering stars, with arms flung across the night?

“Ophiucus, I believe,” comes a soft, silky voice. Magnus jumps, grabbing at the corners of the statue as he darts his eyes across the field. He can’t see anything, no figure to match the voice that surrounds him. A pang of fear strikes in his stomach, so similar to hunger.

Slowly, Magnus sees two bright pinpoints, like stars themselves. A cold hand touches his cheek, and suddenly his own cat’s eyes -  bright gold with specks of green - are staring back at him. 

Magnus feels his throat close up. The hand brushes his hair from his eyes, wipes the grime of the streets off him. Magnus wishes desperately to see, to convince himself he isn’t staring into a puddle, fooling himself with a reflection. 

“Do not be afraid,” says the figure. “I am more real than anything you will ever know.”

The touch is the gentlest Magnus has felt in years. How does he know what Magnus is thinking? How? Two hands grip him by his arms, hauling him up as if he weighs nothing. 

He thinks of the soft, hazy days back home- the relentless heat, the cool streams. The way he clung to his mother’s shoulder, for fear that she would suddenly slip away. The last thing she’d said to him was that he was becoming too heavy for her to carry. 

Slowly, he winds his arms around the figure’s neck. The man - Magnus has decided it must be a man - walks slowly, nearly limping. The rocking lulls him, makes his eyelids heavy as he succumbs to sleep. Maybe the angels that stared down beneath him had finally sent one to save him.

That night, Magnus dreams of nothing. 

.

 

**BROOKLYN**

.

 

The arrow in Alec’s chest pulls easily enough. Magnus ignores the squelch of blood, applying pressure on the wound. Catarina is already on her way, her calm voice in his ear telling him to staunch the bleeding however he can. 

“Magnus,” Alec heaves. Magnus shakes his head, willing Alec to save his strength. He says as much, but the Shadowhunter stubbornly shakes his head. 

“Your magic,” Alec strokes a finger down Magnus’ cheek. “You gave it up for Jace?” 

“You heard that?” Magnus quips, ignoring his stinging eyes. Alec grins. His blood, nearly black in the alley, trickles from the corner of his mouth.

“Love you,” he pants. His pulse is weak, his fingers cold.  Alec’s eyes go unfocused. “Love you so much.”

“You’re not dying,” Magnus says. “So you can save the dramatics. Catarina is almost here.”

He barely gets the word out before the familiar hum of a portal opens behind him. Catarina steps out, hurrying towards him. She envelops them both in the glow of her magic. Magnus can still feel it dancing on his skin, warming him up from the inside.

He watches as the torn skin mends itself, Catarina’s magic stitching flesh together deftly. He remembers watching her, her tongue poking out, the lock of hair over her eyes. He leans forward, tucks it behind her ear. 

In no time, Alec’s wound is healed. The only evidence that remains is his bloodied shirt, and the unnatural angle at which his arm bends.

“I can heal that with my _iratze_ ,” Alec offers. “You’ve done more than enough for me.”

“That I have,” she agrees. She fixes her dark gaze on Magnus. “I can’t feel your magic, Magnus. Care to explain?”

Magnus closes his eyes, feels the pain unravel inside him. Every nerve of his feels frayed, cut short by a dull knife.

“I traded it to break Lilith’s possession of Jace.” Catarina audibly sucks in a breath.

“Traded with whom?” she asks, her brows furrowed. She must know. Who else would have the capacity, the cruelty, to rip every fibre of magic from his being?

“Asmodeus,” he sighs. “It had to be done.”

“Of course,” she scoffs. She takes his arm, tugs him up with little effort. He’d forgotten how strong she was, even without magic. Alec protests, propping himself up with his good arm. 

“Wait! We still don’t know if they managed to defeat Lilith, or if Jace - ”

“That’s really none of our concern, Lightwood. Do excuse us.” She makes a portal then, all but pulling Magnus through. He looks back, Alec watching him open-mouthed, still sitting in a pool of his own blood. 

.

Ensconced in Catarina’s apartment, Magnus finally lets himself sink into the comfortable armoire. Catarina busies herself making tea, grinds the cinnamon herself and sprinkles it in their cups. Magnus accepts the drink, thanking her as he takes a long sip.

“Where’s Madzie?” he asks. His stomach turns at the thought of having to explain any of this to her. 

“Sleeping.”

Magnus nods. He feels Catarina’s gaze on him like a laser, slowly burning away his defenses.

“It took forever to get her to fall asleep. She kept saying that she couldn’t feel you. And then I felt that huge burst of magic, all concentrated in your hands, and then it was just gone. Like it never existed in the first place.”

“God, Magnus,” she exhales shakily. “It felt like you _died_.”

Magnus looks up to see tears streaming down her face. He wipes her tears, setting down the mug and holding her face in his palm. Her shoulders shake, she heaves wetly into her hands. Magnus feels his stomach turn over. He’d forgotten Catarina’s immense capacity to feel loss, even if it wasn’t her own.

“What are you going to do now?” she asks, worry etched into her brow. 

Before he can speak, he hears a soft, tentative voice call out. “Magnus?”

There is Madzie, clad in the fleece pyjamas he bought her, one hand rubbing her eye - the other trained on him. 

“Sweet pea,” he breathes, makes room for her to settle between him and Catarina. She climbs on, nestles between them and rests her head on Catarina’s shoulder. Her apprehensive eyes scan him all over. 

“Is it really you?” she asks, so softly he almost doesn’t hear her. Magnus stretches his hand out, waiting for her to slide her smaller one in. He nods gently, tries to pierce through the confusion in her puffy eyes. Had she been crying? Guilt shoots through his veins, paralyzing in its intensity.

He nods gently. “I’m right here.”

“I can’t feel your magic,” she whispers. She reaches up, holds his cheek in her palm. “Are you hiding it?”

“No, sweetheart. I’m afraid I - ” Suddenly the words are caught in his throat. The warmth of Catarina’s loft, the sweetness of Madzie’s gaze. His eyes start to sting, his chest deflates - his body gives up the pretense of being fine.

“I had to give it up to help my friends,” he says. His voice cracks at the end, Catarina notices it.  So does Madzie. 

There’s a beat where none of them speak. Catarina sniffles, Madzie tilts her head. He can feel her perceptive gaze looking right through him, right into the ache in his heart. 

“Are you sad, Magnus?” 

Magnus laughs at that, an ugly sound that’s foreign in his throat. “A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, and gathers her in his arms. “This had to be done.” 

She leans her head against his shoulder, arms around his neck. Catarina rubs her back, murmurs softly until Madzie’s eyes close and she starts breathing through her gills. 

“You know,” Catarina whispers, eyes focused on Madzie’s sleeping form. “No matter what crazy stunt you pulled, I’d always understand - sooner or later. I’d always see you behind the chaos. Figure out how it would end before it did.” 

“This time, I just - ” Catarina shakes her head softly. “I can’t see the end for you, Magnus.”

Neither can he. His future, which he’d always regarded with bemused inattention, had suddenly shrouded itself from him. All the doors his magic had opened felt like they’d been slammed shut in his face, the paths lit up by his power suddenly pitch black. The fear of the unknown, the primal fear of all mortals, had finally seized him.

It spreads through him like a poison, coursing through his blood till he couldn’t speak, only nod dumbly as he watches Catarina finally fall asleep. The night passes through him, giving him no dreams, no rest. Nothing but the sickening fear of what he simply cannot see.

 .

Over the course of the next few days, the Institute and those in its periphery busied themselves with clean up. He attends for Alec, mostly, but when he sees Lorenzo Rey reinforcing the wards he’d put up decades ago, he decided there wasn’t any reason for him to remain. Not that he’d minded, of course. The Shadowhunters’ dislike of warlocks, combined with their detached sympathy made for a nauseating environment Magnus found difficult to work in.

In truth, Magnus was glad for the distance. He couldn’t stand to see anymore of Alec’s hand-wringing over Jace, the way the world was supposed to bend itself around two Shadowhunters and no one else. 

Magnus uses the time to read the books he’d put aside for decades, practice potions half-baked in his mind. It was a small mercy he could still brew potions, as they only required skill and effort - not magic.

He even visited a coffee shop Simon had spoken highly of, requesting a frivolous sugary drink and sipping it slowly. He looked out the window, watching the Mundanes pass by, caught up in their worlds. He wasn’t relaxed, not really, but it was better than pacing around in his loft and being reminded of all the things he couldn’t do. 

He fiddles with the napkin, barely lifts his head when a couple breaks out in argument. It’s only the unnatural speed with which they’re both escorted out when a familiar voice offers “Seelies,” does he lift his head.

“Alec?” he asks, suddenly face to face with the Shadowhunter. He grins sheepishly, and takes a sip out of Magnus’ drink before scrunching up his face. 

“Did you follow me here?” Magnus asks incredulously. He thinks he was quite clear in wanting to be left alone in his hand-written note. He’d even used his feather quill. 

Alec averts his eyes. “I had to deal with the situation anyway. It’s a coincidence you’re here, really.”

“Really?” Magnus raises an eyebrow. No doubt Alec planted those Seelies here, just to make the ruse of being on duty when his shift is over by this time. 

Alec clears his throat, inspecting his drink. “There’s a number on your cup,” he says. He taps at the side, and indeed there is a phone number scrawled right under his name, with a little heart beside it. Magnus sneaks a glance at the barista, who sends him a smile sweeter than his drink.

Alec leans forward, gives him a slow, indulgent kiss. Magnus shuts his eyes, tries to focus on the press of his lips, the hum of the coffee shop. Before he can, Alec’s phone buzzes and he pulls away reluctantly.

“Duty calls,” he says, shaking his phone. “I’ll see you at home?” He phrases it like a question, but leaves before Magnus can answer. 

Magnus sighs, swirling around the whipped cream until his drink looks like a frothy grey mess. Suddenly, he’s lost his appetite. He trashes the drink, sends an awkward, apologetic look to the barista, and wishes he was anywhere in the world but here. 

.

In the loft, Alec quietly orders takeout, serves it on silver plate. Arranges the vegetables by colour, places each sauce in order of spiciness in a neat little row. An infantry of carrots, a regiment of peas. Magnus is charmed by their orderliness.

“No home-cooked meals this time?” Magnus asks, pushing the food around. They sit on the carpet like bookends, volumes of space between them. Only their knees touch, even that occasionally. As if this is the first meal between them.

“I’m aware of your feelings on my culinary skills,” Alec drawls. He takes a small, perfunctory bite - just to encourage Magnus to eat. “I wouldn’t make you go through that again.”

“It honestly wasn’t that bad,” he lies, trying a piece of broccoli drenched in sauce. He wonders if his father had taken his tastebuds as well as his magic, a cruel little joke only Magnus could feel.

Alec sets his plate down, fixes him with a measured look. “Magnus,” he starts, blinking slowly as if Magnus will bolt at any sudden movement. 

Magnus hums, not looking up from his plate. He can anticipate the question, felt it hovering between them the whole afternoon. He stares at his plate, at the plastic fork, at the rug that needs to be cleaned. 

“When are we going to talk about this?”

 _We_. As if there was a _we_ in the situation, as if he and Alec were on the same spiral, spinning out of control. Magnus almost laughs. 

“Giving up your magic,” Alec soldiers on, because that what he always does. Boldly going where no Shadowhunter has gone before. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“No, you can’t,” Magnus snaps. He places the plate delicately on the table, a parody of calm. He moves to leave, but Alec grabs his wrist. 

“Tell me then,” Alec pleads. It feels unfair, really, what Alec is asking. As if Magnus has even acknowledged it, this intangible storm of grief and guilt, so huge and nameless it seems poised to swallow him whole. It is the monster under his bed, the shadow in the corner of his eye. The slow collapse of his lungs, the atrophying of his muscles. 

“Do you regret it?” Alec asks desperately. “Magnus, do you regret - ?”

Magnus shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek. “You can’t ask me that!” He almost screams. His heart catches in his throat. Alec rubs his thumb over Magnus’ pulse, feels it jackhammering under his touch. 

“What _can_ I ask you? When can I, as a matter of fact? You’ve been avoiding me this whole week. You won’t come to the Institute, you leave the loft when I arrive. You sit in random coffee shops or hide in Catarina’s apartment. You don’t even give me a chance to help you!”

Magnus grinds his teeth. His anger bubbles up, rearing its ugly head. “Help?” he snarls, tearing his wrist from Alec’s grasp. “There isn’t a single thing you can do to help me.”

He turns his back, barely restrains himself from stomping to his room. He ignores the mess on the table, that they’d both usually clean, or the dishes in the sink - Alec washes and Magnus dries, or the unmade bed they sprawled on hours prior. 

Despite Alec’s knocking on the door, he eventually falls asleep beside it. Magnus shifts him to the bed, finding him significantly heavier without his magic, and pulls out an old computer he can’t remember buying. With the help of the internet, and a few choice texts to Simon, he manages to book a flight.

In the early hours of morning, he pens a rambling apology note and sticks it to Alec’s phone. He packs nothing except a wad of cash and his ticket, only brushing his teeth and washing up quietly before leaving, locking the door manually. 

There’s so many places he’d avoided simply because of his magic, like taxi cabs or airports or even planes. The Mundane way of traveling, of the endless queues and waiting, grind on his nerves. He settles in his spot, a window seat so he wouldn’t die of boredom, when someone finally takes note of his discomfort.

“First time flying?” asks an older woman, with wispy hair and crow’s feet. Magnus prays in his head she won’t consider his response as an invitation to converse for the next sixteen hours. 

“You could say that,” he offers. He fiddles with the in-flight earplugs, debates their cleanliness. 

“There’s nothing to worry about, really. The runway bumps you around, the pressure pops your ears, then nothing bothers you at all and suddenly you’re ten thousand feet above the sea. Like magic,” she smiles.

Magnus chuckles, despite himself. The woman turns her head away from him, nestled in her neck pillow, and he leans against the window, staring at the clouds. He thinks about turbulence, about engines failing and the body of the plane ripping itself in shreds, of falling slowly into the water. He imagines he’d sink like a stone, heavier than any machinery, letting the bottom of the sea swallow him whole until he was back in Edom, skin crackling with hellfire as fish and sharks and his own father gaped at him.

When he wakes, the woman is gone and the flight attendant asks if he has any carry-ons, if he’d like a drink of water. When he asks where they are, she gestures beyond the runway - at the blue sea in his dreams. Magnus thanks her, asks around for a place to stay and where he might find a specific beach, and sleeps in a small cot with the scent of brine coating his lungs.

_._

**SORAKE BEACH, NORTH SUMATRA**

.

Alec finds him a few days later, settling himself in the sand near Magnus. He’s warm, still carrying that restless heat. Magnus exhales, hearing Alec’s breathing synchronize with his almost instantly. 

“Jace and Simon are losing their minds trying to find Clary,” Alec starts. His knee bumps against Magnus’ calf - his bare feet sink into the sand. 

Magnus hums, watches the sea foam kiss the tips of their toes. “Sorry,” Alec says. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about them right now.” 

Magnus blinks. He isn’t sure what he wants to hear. 

“I - ” There’s that stutter again. Magnus almost missed it. 

“I was afraid you’d gone because of me.” 

Of course it was for you, Magnus thinks. All of this is for you. There’s no one else. 

“Magnus,” Alec says. He slides his calloused hand over Magnus’ bare shoulder, pressing on the bruise on his shoulder blades, the scar from where he’d clipped his ear on the mirror of the car Lorenzo flung him into. He’s looking for a reaction, a feeling. Magnus is too. 

He gets one, when he brushes his thumb against the ring of bruises on his neck. Lilith's work, her burning touch, the suffocation combined with the scorch of hellfire. Magnus flinches, and immediately Alec ducks forward, pressing his lips against the mark in a soft, dry kiss. 

“Magnus,” he whispers, his warm breath against his skin. Alec’s other arm wraps around his waist, his face still buried in Magnus’ neck. 

Magnus can’t find it in him to move. He feels they’ll both sink here, swallowed by the sand. He ignores the hot tears soaking his undershirt, the way Alec squeezes him too tight. 

“I’m sure Biscuit will be fine,” he says. He isn’t quite sure of it, but he needs to say something before Alec cracks a rib. 

Alec gets the hint, unwinding himself from Magnus. He reaches up, using his index finger to tilt Magnus’ chin up. He leans in, close enough that Magnus can see the purplish bags under his eyes. He imagines he must look worse. 

“I’ve taken so much from you,” Alec’s voice cracks. Magnus watches as his hazel eyes begin to fill with tears, desperate as they bore into his own. 

Magnus shakes his head. “I did this of my own free will,” he offers generously, surprising himself. He sure hasn’t felt generous in days.

“For me,” Alec replies. “All because I thought Jace was worth the risk.”

“Wasn’t he?” Magnus asks sharply. The one thing that was constant was Alec’s devotion to his _parabatai_.  Alec doesn’t speak, just pinches the bridge of his nose.

“This whole time,” Alec laughs dryly. “I’ve been chasing after Jace. And he’s been chasing after Clary. 

“And you - ” Alec’s gaze turns unbearably soft. “Somehow you’re the one who gets the short end of the stick. Every single time.” 

Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t want your pity, Alec. Never that. Not from you.”

“It’s not pity,” Alec insists. He gestures into the blue sea. “It’s something I haven’t had in a while. Perspective.”

Magnus raises his brow, searching for a lie in Alec’s gaze. All he finds is unyielding honesty. He feels the first splinter in his chest, wedging a crack where he’d put glass. He leans against Alec, head on his shoulder. Alec’s hand comes up to stroke his hair, his mouth presses a soft kiss to his cheek. The tide shrinks from them, offering some privacy. 

How long did he think he could hide? From Alec, of all people, whose love felt like a beacon, sweeping across all of him to find his bruised heart and heal it with some stammered words and guileless affection.  Bright to the point of burning.

“Wherever you’re sleeping tonight,” Alec asks. “Can I stay?” 

Magnus pretends to think about it. “What if I said I intended to sleep right here?”

“Then you’d get sand in your ass,” Alec snorts. “Be serious. Is there some hotel you’ve booked? Because we’re a long way from the Jakarta Institute, and since you can’t portal - ”

Magnus sucked in a breath. Alec winced, and fumbled. “Shit. I didn’t mean to bring that up. Raziel, I’m sorry I even - ”

Magnus waves his hand. “It’s fine.” The ache of losing his magic hadn’t lessened, that was true, but he found he could divert his attention until it began to mend itself. 

“I’ll find us a place,” Alec promises. He clasps Magnus’ hand between his, folded in prayer. “You don’t worry about anything for as long as you want to stay here.”

Magnus waits for his mood to sour, for him to snap at Alec to not coddle him, for the seeds of resentment to sow themselves into his heart. Instead, he feels himself grow tired, the down - to - the - bone tired. He waits as Alec hails a cab, sits against the soft velveteen seat and watches out the window as Alec guides the driver in stilted Indonesian. 

“Don’t you have a Rune for translation?” he asks, when they arrive at a cosy looking hotel. They leave the car, Alec tipping the man generously.

“I do, but I learned this myself. For you.” Alec smiles at him gently. “I’d hoped if and when we visited your home, I’d be able to impress you. This wasn’t the exact scenario I pictured, but..” he trails off.

Magnus feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips. He reaches for Alec’s fingers with his own, gently intertwining them. They remain that way through the lobby, all to the comfortable room. Magnus sinks bonelessly into the mattress. 

Alec curls around him like a question mark. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Shout out to Ida, who commented that bahasa just means language in Indonesian - fixed that. Thanks for pointing it out!


	2. Chapter 2

Magnus wakes to an arm wrapped around his waist. A slight breeze blows in from the windows, billowing the curtains. The fresh, salty sea-water permeates everything here, from the air to the food. Gooseflesh erupts on his arms, he shivers involuntarily.

He raises his hand, snaps his fingers once, twice. Realizes that the window is still open, that the breeze hasn’t stopped. The reality filters in slowly, then all at once. He walks up to the window, shuts it and locks it himself. He grips the pane so hard his knuckles turn white. 

Magnus stares at the reflection that isn’t quite his. It feels like all the blood in his veins has been replaced with saline.

He hears the sheets rustle, but Alec simply stirs and falls back asleep. Magnus wonders how long he’ll stay until something or the other whisks him back to the Institute. He finds himself almost wishing for it.

Magnus paces. He washes up, and sits on the corner of the tub. He wears plain white clothes, contemplates throwing all his jewelry into the ocean.

Eventually Alexander wakes, ambles into the washroom and brushes his teeth. He looks at Magnus through the reflection in the mirror, tentatively asking how he’d slept. 

“Fine,” Magnus says. He doesn’t mention how his dreams had been disconcertingly vivid, filled with gore and rivers of blood and all that. No need to spoil a morning with such viscera.

“Well,” Alec says, garbled with his toothbrush in his mouth. “I haven’t had any dreams for a while.”

Magnus doesn’t feel up to whatever tedious conversation Alec seems to be drawing them into. He lifts himself up, and orders nearly every breakfast item from the menu to the room service, keeping them on the line for as long as possible. When he hears Alec turn on the shower knob, he sighs in relief and sets the phone down. 

The food arrives in two ostentatious carts. The staff roll them in, and Magnus watches the affair of setting the table with disinterest. Alec walks out, towel around his shoulders.

He’s dressed simply, in white. Had they both subconsciously chosen the colour of mourning?

“Food looks good,” Alec hums. He pulls out a chair and reaches over for the jam on his toast. He offers a croissant to Magnus, who shakes his head. 

“I don’t have much of an appetite, I’m afraid.” He tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. 

“You should eat something,” Alec insists. Magnus takes the pastry from him but doesn’t bite into it. It slowly dawns on him that this might be Alec’s way of trying to take care of him. 

“You know, the beach is really nice in the mornings. We could head down there after breakfast, if you’d like.”

Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose. No doubt Alec thinks he’s inherited some sort of tropical vacation now that he’s here.

“I’ve already seen the beach,” he says. Alec watches him intently, chewing his lip.

“What do you want to do, then?” he asks. Magnus looks up at him sharply.

He wants to find the deepest part of the thick forest and curl into the foliage. He wants to sink into the cool earth until the worms pick him clean, and the rainwater dissolves his bones. He wants a quiet death in a small corner of the world.

“Nothing,” he says petulantly. He wants Alec to drop the subject, immediately.

“I know losing your powers hurts more than I can ever imagine, but you’ve got to move on with your life. Things are’t over, they’re just different.” Alec gives him an affable smile. Magnus clenches his fist underneath the table, willing himself to calm down. 

“This isn’t something to move on from,” he insists. He’s heard of warlock’s losing their powers before, in spells gone awry or poorly thought out deals with demons. They become recluses, carrying the label of _ifrit_ like a shameful brand. He can already feel himself calcifying, having lost the permeability of thought that magic granted him throughout the years.

Alec sighs quietly. “This is all because of me. My inability to kill Jace, to free him from the Owl’s possession.”

The name of the blond Shadowhunter puts Magnus on edge. He simply doesn’t have it in him to  console Alexander for what he was unable to do weeks ago.

“I’m sorry for asking for such a huge sacrifice, Magnus.”

“You didn’t ask,” Magnus reminds him. He’d done this from his own free will. 

“I might as well have,” Alec interjects. “I was so worried about losing Jace I didn’t even think about what this meant for you.”

Magnus starts to speak, but Alec gets the words out first. “I’ve always tried to be a good parabatai, but I can’t ever do it right without hurting others. Isabelle, Max. You.”

Alec looks at him with soft, wide eyes. “I’m so sorry, Magnus. For - for everything.”

He leans in, grasps Magnus’ hand tightly. He must see it now, in Magnus’ eyes, the desire to run. He holds his hand tighter.

“I’m bound to you, too,” he breathes. His breath is warm on Magnus’ skin, his lips are bleeding from where he’d bitten them. He stares at Magnus with such ardent desperation it feels like a flame has sparked between them.

“I know you probably don’t believe me, but I can feel when you’re hurting. If anything happened to you, Magnus, I don’t know if - ”

Magnus furrows his brow. “Something has already happened, Alec.” 

Alec nods shakily. “I know. I’m sorry, Magnus. I’m so sorry, I’m so - ”

Magnus feels like every nerve of his has been touched with a live wire. 

“Just stop!” he yells. “Stop _grovelling_. I can’t stand while you apologize to the moon and back for something that isn’t going to change.”

Alec blinks, clearly taken aback. He leans back, runs his hands through his hair. Exhales once through his nose, nervously scratches his wrist. 

“What exactly should I do then?” 

“Nothing,” Magnus bites back. “It’s what you’re good at.”

Alec drops his fork onto the table. “I’ve taken a week’s leave from the Institute just for you, Magnus.”

Magnus takes a deep breath. Why does it feel like he’s hurtling towards a cliff’s edge? Why can’t he just shut his mouth and eat his breakfast?

“Quite the sacrifice,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Excuse me?” Clearly Alec heard that snide little comment.

Magnus opens his mouth, regrettably, not to shove a croissant in it.

“I’ve always wondered about what you said to me, that night before your wedding. That being with me would cost you immensely - your family, your career, everything that mattered.”

He exhales, ignores his stinging eyes, tries not to think of the nosedive his life has taken.

“We’ve all made sacrifices, Magnus.” Ever the diplomat. Magnus feels his blood boil.

“Have we _all_?” he sneers. “Last I checked you’re the Head of the Institute and your family and your precious parabatai are still here.”

“You don’t know sacrifice.” He’s shaking now, holding on to the table like it’s a lifeline. “You’ve lost _nothing._ ”

Ragnor’s untimely death had to be the start of it. Then the epic political blunder of aligning himself with the Seelie Queen. Then losing the High Warlock position he’d held for nearly fifty years to that pompous ass Lorenzo. It felt as if he’d lived a hundred years in the past few days.

He massages his temples. “I think you should go home,” Magnus says. He can already see Alec gearing up to protest. 

“No,” Alec says firmly. “I’m here for you.”

“You know, this all started when I agreed to help a Shadowhunter. Only because of the guilt I felt for doing something her mother demanded of me.”

Magnus barks out a laugh. Wasn’t it always Shadowhunters that got him into these messes?None as severe as losing his magic, but the point still stands.

“You have to leave,” he says. If Alec stays even another day, he might bite his head off. Before Alec can answer, Magnus shoves off the cart. He locks himself in the washroom quicker than Alec can activate his Speed rune. 

He stuffs two cottons balls into his ears, and crawls into the tub and tries very hard not to think about anything at all.

.

His mind betrays him eventually, and Magnus makes his way to the small mirror over the sink. He touches his neck gingerly, lingering on the still unhealed bruises from Lilith. He feels himself aching all over, weighed down by the physical toll of losing his magic.

The damage is done, he thinks. The thought swirls in his mind, dissolves it. He wonders if he put his finger into his ear, he’d actually be able to touch his soupy brain. 

Magnus blinks. He’s hallucinating, surely. The reflection in the mirror is tilted, the skin of his face is tingling. He can always hear Alec but can’t see him. 

Suddenly, he feels his stomach seize, bile rising in his throat. He clutches the sink, doubles down. There’s no way he’s going to vomit, not when he hasn’t eaten yet, not when he’s a grown man and not a child with a hangover, not when - 

The thoughts spill out of him in one halting, painful retch. Magnus stares at the ruined tiles, the splatter of dark red on his hand. He leans in closer, automatically pulling out a light, feathery _thing_ sticking out of the puddle. 

“Dragonfly wings?” he mutters. Though disgusting, the mid-morning light reflects off the paper thin membrane. The colour of the wing, the gossamer feel between his fingers burns a hole in his memory, creating an itch he can’t scratch. Something on the tip of his tongue.

He crawls out of the tiny window, towards the forest, already lost in thoughts that barely chained themselves to reason.

.

He was spiralling. Perhaps literally, considering how deep in the forest he’d already walked.

“You’re spiralling,” came a voice from behind. Magnus turns on his heel, sees a man wearing high trousers and a cravat. His heart skips a beat as the spirit comes closer, two familiar silver horns sticking out of his skull.

“Ragnor,” he breathes. He stares at his friend. Ragnor seems to have paled, from his skin to his hair, which seemed greyer than before. There was a milky, filmy quality to his eyes, which stared at Magnus for a few moments before lighting up with recognition. He unconsciously touches the deep, bloody gash that nearly severed his neck.

“It has been a while, old friend.” When Magnus moves to embrace him, he finds himself holding air.

“Much has changed since we last spoke,” Ragnor says wistfully. “My spirit now roams freely, but without its substance.”

“You’re in limbo?” Magnus asks. It’s better than the alternative of being dragged to hell, but he’s selfishly glad that Ragnor hasn’t quite ascended this realm yet.

“I go to whichever soul calls for me. And no one on this earth has been calling quite as hard as you.”

Magnus chuckles. “I should have known there was no getting rid of you.”

“Is that what you call it?”

He shrugs. He can’t feign nonchalance for much longer when his dearest friend is no more than a finger’s length away.

“I heard you had a lover’s quarrel with Alexander,” Ragnor hums. Magnus grinds his teeth, an old, bad habit. 

“Blaming your loss of the High Warlock position on your two month relationship would be going a smidge too far, no?” Ragnor says amusedly. 

Magnus feels his lip quiver. He had been intentionally cruel, he knows it. He’d picked words and dipped them in poison.

“I didn’t mean to say those things,” he confesses. He doesn’t bother with the lie that he did not mean them, because he did. But after hundreds of years, he thought he had mastered the art of biting his own tongue. 

“You are angry,” Ragnor says gently. “You are grieving. Your magic - ”

“I haven’t died,” he snipes. “None have, in a matter of fact.” 

And it was true. Give or take the location of a certain Shadowhunter, the world seemed to have returned to its original state. For all except him. 

Strangely, Magnus remembers the night of when he lost the title of High Warlock. He had  swiftly imbued himself with drink in order to forget, watching Lorenzo saunter away.

Hadn’t he known then? Couldn’t he already predict what was to happen? The swift machination of his downfall, how everything had collapsed so perfectly, so silently, until he was nearly crushed under the rubble of his own city without hearing a single brick fall.

He seats himself on the sawed off trunk of a tree. Ragnor sways beside him, one hand on his shoulder. He redirects his morbid thoughts to the item in his pocket, right next to the omamori.

“I puked this up in the morning,” he says, holding up the preserved wings. “What do you think?”

“Absolutely revolting,” Ragnor sniffs. “Do put that away.”

Magnus bites the inside of his cheek. “I meant symbolically.”

Ragnor rolls his undead eyes, scratches around the gashes of his neck. 

“You are aware I’m not omniscient, Magnus. I know as much as you do about all of this.”

Magnus shakes his head. “You always seem to know more than me,” he replies.

He wracks his brain for answers. Dragonfly wings. He thinks of Dot, remembers a night dancing that felt it happened centuries ago. Why had she given those to him, that night he’d told her he was in love with Alec? He can remember parts, like her nails against the fabric of his shirt, the night time breeze, the hum of traffic. Over-exaggerated conversations about trysts with Freddie Mercury, from the both of them. 

Frustrated, Magnus slams a fist against the tree trunk. He gets sore knuckles and a sudden craving for whiskey on the rocks for his troubles.

“What have you done, old friend?” Ragnor asks. In his ephemeral state Magnus can still catch a hint of worry in his tone. 

He peels the bark off the tree stump, giving the same non-commital answer. It had to be done. For Alec. For Jace. For the city. 

He can’t think too closely, examine each detail of his sacrifice because then the niggling fear of it all being for nothing becomes a glaring fact. Ragnor stares at him in kindly, stupidly concerned silence.

“I’ve kickstarted my own apocalypse,” he sighs. “That’s all.”

Ragnor shimmers with regret. “I can feel you slipping away, Magnus.”

“Do tell,” Magnus hums, watching as a leaf falls right through his oldest friend. 

“Your soul,” he holds up a hand, already anticipating Magnus’ protest. “Which you in fact, do possess, is being pulled downwards. In a way that I can’t follow.”

Magnus feels an immediate frisson of fear. “Toward Edom?” he whispers. The leaves shrink from his touch, the air around him becomes still and hot. 

Ragnor catches a leaf, manages to hold it for a few seconds. “It seems that way.”

“You were never this cryptic when you were alive,” Magnus gripes. “If you know something I don’t, tell me.”

Ragnor floats closer to him. “I don’t know what will happen to you, or when, or what order. I don’t have an itinerary for you. All I see in this limbo are passing moments.”

“I see you kissing Alec at his wedding. I see you pulling an arrow from his chest. I see you walking into the ocean until the top of your head is under the waves.”

Magnus grabs onto his friends arm. Through sheer will, Ragnor becomes more solid underneath him. 

“Do you see me with my magic again?” he asks. There’s no point trying to hide how desperate he is. 

Ragnor shakes his head. “I can’t see beyond that.”

“Beyond what?” Magnus explodes. He hurls a rock at him, watches it sail right through Ragnor. The grip on his shoulder lessens, the leaf flutters to the ground.  

“Why come here, why tell me about your supposed visions and glimpses of the future? Why wax  poetic about roads not taken when you haven’t told me a single thing of value?”

How could he explain that it felt he was the ghost now? Flickering in and out of existence, tethered only by fear and stupid, relentless hope. Ragnor starts fading, first his hands, then half of his face. Magnus tries to hold onto him, grabs the hand that begins to wave goodbye. 

“Ragnor,” he nearly sobs. “I am so close to - ”

When he looks up, Ragnor is gone.

. 

Eventually, Magnus works up the courage to go back to the hotel room. He winces at the thought of dealing with Alec’s silent hurt. 

He opens the door to the room, the cart of food still untouched in the middle. 

“Alexander,” he calls out. He isn’t the least bit surprised at the lack of response.

“What I said was unnecessary. Cruel. Tasteless,” he’s throwing words left and right, hoping they will stick.

“I - ” he falters, unable to gather the courage to open the bedroom door. He grasps the knob, the sweat of his hands leaving unseemly streaks on the steel. There is more of that now, more of his sweat and blood and tears staining whatever he touches. A most human footprint.

Magnus swings the door open, hoping that seeing Alec will cause the apology to spring forth on its own. 

Instead, he’s greeted by an empty room. Despite the breeze, the familiar heat of a fire message surrounds him. He kneels down by a singed piece of parchment, lifting it gingerly. 

Alec has been portalled to the Institute by Catarina. Jace had found Clary. Catarina would portal him back soon. 

Magnus barely has time to finish reading the note before the sharp scent of ozone fills the air. He looks up, sees an arm reach out from the swirling vortex towards him. Magnus grasps the slim hand, watches as the fiery portal turns navy skin into violet. He stares deeply into one dark eye. 

He’s unceremoniously tugged into the portal, squeezing his eyes shut at the last minute. Stepping through portals that aren’t his own has always been uncomfortable for Magnus, the feeling only amplified without the bubble of magic to protect him. The dizzying speed of teleportation turns his stomach over, and he doesn’t dare open his eyes until he lands on something solid. 

Then, his feet firmly on the cold Institute floor, he blinks each eye open. Jace, Isabelle and Alec all stare back at him like he’s risen up from the grave. Magnus doesn’t see any trace of emotion on Alec’s face. He’s standing at attention - stiffly, upright with his hands behind his back. Only do his eyes betray the stance, following Magnus’ movements with unnerving precision.

“Well,” he says, arms open. “You’ve got Catarina to drag me all the way back here for something, haven’t you? What is it?”

It’s Alec who breaks from his stupor. “Jace knows where Clary is.”

“I read as much in your note,” Magnus says. “Where is Biscuit?”

Catarina places a hand on his arm, still sizzling from the portal. Magnus looks at her, still without the glamour, blooming like a violet in the spring. 

Jace steps forward, perhaps bound by duty to be the bearer of bad news.

“She’s in Edom. Along with Lilith, and what we suspect is left of Jonathan.”

Magnus’ throat goes dry. He glances at Catarina, unmoored. She squeezes his forearm gently.

It would be tasteless to laugh at this moment, he knows it. He still can’t help the breathless scoff that escapes him. They were still demanding his help, in some capacity, until the very bitter end. Even though he had nothing else left to give.

“You’re asking me to go to Edom to save Clary.” 

“No,” Isabelle says. “Not even close. We just need a protection spell. Catarina will provide the magic.”

Magnus raises a brow. “You think a mere spell will protect you from the seventh circle of Hell?”

Jace clears his throat. “When Clary brought me back to life with the angel’s wish, it was his divine favour that restored me. Ithuriel’s Grace is what runs through my veins, and it is what will shield me when I bring Clary back.”

Magnus stares at the two of them, dumbfounded. “You think a dead angel’s Grace will keep my father from ripping you into shreds?”

Jace nods with all the confidence in the world. Magnus wants to punch him. From his periphery, Catarina fidgets, picking at her nails. 

He turns his head to her. “Did they ask you for the spell first?” 

She nods. “I said no, but they insisted I portal you. Quite confident that you’d agree to help.”

Magnus looks back at them, their hopeful, upturned faces. He spits his answer onto the concrete floor. 

“No.” He raises his hand before they can protest. 

“I will not perform any protection spell for this idiotic mission of yours, and neither will any other warlock in the vicinity. I may have lost my magic, but not my brain cells.”

“As soon as you enter the seventh gate, the Hellfire will burn your runes clean off. The _Edomei_ will hunt you like wolves, and Lilith will find you before you even know where you are. Then my father will cleave your soul from your body and keep you captive in eternal torment.”

He pauses, surveying the room. A slight chill has settled into the air. Their jaws seem to be wired shut.

“There is no Grace in Hell. Your angelic protection is for their realm and this one, none else. You would not survive one second in Edom.”

It’s Jace who speaks first, insolently. “You would. In fact, you already have. ”

“So you _do_ want me to bring Clary back myself? Why not just say so outright?”

“We don’t want you to go anywhere, Magnus,” Alec says. “Just tell us how so we can finally destroy Lilith.”

“How?” he snarls. All thoughts of repentance leaves him as he turns to the Head of the Institute. “It was my magic that spared me from my father’s wrath. Nothing else.”

“And for you,” he jabs a finger into Jace’s chest. “I have sacrificed even that.”

All the air seems to leave Jace’s lungs. Magnus watches him deflate, hang his head in something worse than shame. 

“Of course,” he mumbles. “I am sorry for bothering you, Magnus.” Jace pushes himself away, leaving Magnus’ finger poking air. Isabelle runs after him, Alec too after a cursory glance at the warlocks.

“Nice speech,” Catarina chirps after the door slams shut.  Magnus’ mouth quirks up.

“I hope it serves as an excellent deterrent from any more bone - headed ideas.” She snorts, slaps his arm. Magnus feels his chest ache. He missed her.

“How was your angst-filled vacation?” She asks him lightly, impressively masking her concern.

“Alec tagged along for most of it,” he sighs. “I wasn’t able to fully wallow in self pity.”

Catarina sniffs. “You sure wallowed in something, alright. You are ripe, Magnus.”

“You caught me at a bad time,” he protests, knocking his shoulder against hers. She chuckles quietly, looking so small against the imposing grey walls of the Institute. 

They stand together quietly, staring at the stained glass mosaics in the ceiling. He’d always admired that, the tiny pockets of beauty in an otherwise bleak fortress.

“What you said about Grace,” Catarina start, still staring up. “Of there being no Grace in Hell. Is that true?”

Magnus looks back at her. “You think the Prince of Hell would accept _Grace_ as the reason not to smite someone?”

She shakes her head. “No, but - ” He can see the gears turning in her head. 

“Remember what you told me about your time in Edom? That sometimes your magic was so volatile it would often just be dormant for weeks?”

Magnus nods, following her train of thought. When he was just learning his magic, he’d had a tenuous grasp on his powers - often having severe bursts of power followed by total blackouts - not even the slightest spark could have been conjured despite his efforts.

“What kept you safe then?” she wonders. Other warlocks who had attempted to contact their demonic parentage had been incinerated within Hellmouths, not nearly strong enough to withstand pure Hellfire. Magnus sees where her mind is taking them, his stomach sinking with dread.

He thinks of the endless nights in Edom, nearly consumed by the despair that his magic had truly left him, that he hadn’t paid close enough attention to his father’s lessons. It had been an effective tactic in binding Magnus to him; the fear of losing the only thing that made him worthy of his father’s affection.

His father had always assuaged his fears, saying his magic would return if he truly focused on it. Magnus remembers watching unfortunate souls snatched up by the _Edomei_ from the ruins of the castle, hearing shrieks and cries from the safety of library. The flap of one of the creature’s wings would almost knock him over, the talons of another were the size of his arm. 

And yet, he had never once questioned his own security within Edom. He had never been given any reason by the only person who had ever truly cared for him.

The realization that in his own way, it was his father’s Grace protecting him from the horrors of the realm, rattles him.

It wasn’t the Shadowhunters who would be sheltered by Grace in Edom. It would be him.

Magnus closes his eyes. He’s received the answer to the question he didn’t want to ask.

.

He calls the Shadowhunters back into the conference room. They file in, eyes fixed on him. They’re expecting a quick solution, something to make their lives easy and painless - what Magnus has always provided for them.

“I believe there is a way for me to retrieve Clary from my father’s realm.” Like clockwork, the three Shadowhunters lean in. Magnus raises his arms, thumbs pointing at himself. A tad theatric, but he’s already feeling quite unhinged.

Seeing their confusion, he drops his arms back down. Like the crippled Caliban, he muses. Understood by so few it seemed necessary to retreat within himself.

“I will save Clarissa and defeat Lilith by entering Edom myself,” he proclaims. He watches in delirious satisfaction as their heads turn and eyes roll back into skulls. Catarina stiffens next to him.

He relishes their shock, their self-righteous indignation. An idea blossoms in his mind, its roots spreading deep throughout his skull.

Isabelle shakes her head. Jace stares at him with a broken expression. Alec looks at him blankly, mouth slightly agape.

“Magnus,” Catarina said softly. She adopts that soothing tone she uses on young children and animals. 

“This isn’t how you heal.”

He shakes his head. Even his dearest Catarina couldn’t see what was so plain to him. 

“I am not trying to heal.” Far from it, actually. He hoped the fires of Edom would burn so thoroughly there wouldn’t even be any ashes for her to scatter. 

A final sacrifice. The denouement. He had always wanted to go out in style. 

Magnus thinks of Ragnor’s warning. He was slowly being dragged to Edom, bit by bit.  Asmodeus would not stop until Magnus was there, be it whole or in pieces. Either that, or being worm food in an unexplored forest. Whichever came first.

It was inevitable. He decides to march straight to his end, instead of cowering from it like he has for centuries. The plan has cemented in his mind, despite the objections of Jace and Isabelle, and the gentle prodding by Catarina. Only Alexander remains silent, never once taking his eyes off Magnus.

Later, Alec corners him in the hallways. Magnus resists the urge to sprint out of the Institute, reminding himself to handle things like an adult.

“Magnus,” he calls. Like a siren. Magnus turns his head, mentally preparing himself. 

“There has to be another way to save Clary,” he pleads. “Without you sacrificing yourself.”

“You didn’t seem to have this problem when Jace was possessed.” It’s an old wound, a scab he can’t stop picking. Why didn’t you stop me? He wants to scream. I burned in Hell for you. Why did you let me go?

He says none of these things. He watches as Alec sniffs, fails to hide the hurt in his eyes. Immediately, he starts bargaining. 

“That was a mistake. And I’ve made a lot of mistakes when it comes to you, but you always seem to forgive me. I get it now. I won’t let you go again. You always - “ 

Magnus holds up a ringed hand. He doesn’t want to think of what he always used to do. 

“Alexander,” he says softly, because Alec deserves that at least. 

“Clary is key to the balance of the Downworld. And Lilith must be stopped. We failed once before. I would not like to repeat that.” 

Alec shakes his head. “You’re doing this because you’re upset with me. I know you are.” 

Magnus laughs then, shrilly. “Upset?” He watches as Alec’s features waver, then smooth themselves out. How many times has Alec ever truly cried over him? 

I am beginning to resent you, he thinks. He wonders what would happen if he said as much. It would probably shatter every illusion Alec held on to.

Magnus spares him. 

“I’d like to leave things like this,” he says. Before anymore of this rage consumes him. Best to save it for down under. 

He places two gentle arms on Alec’s shoulders, lets him lean into his touch. He wants his last memory to be a bedtime story for Alec, something he can suck his thumb to. A gentle ode to Morpheus. 

. 

Before he sleeps, Magnus picks up his phone and punches in numbers. On the third ring, he hears a sweet, if not tired, voice of an old friend.

“Magnus?”

“Dorothea,” he whispers. “Sorry for the awful timing, but I’ve got to pick your brain about something.”

“Shoot.”

“Dragonfly wings,” he says, holding up the delicate pair between his fingers. They become iridescent in the moonlight. He nearly expects them to begin fluttering.

She sighs over the line, sending static crackling into his ear. “I’ll get my book,” she says. 

He hides his satisfied smile in the dark.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long gap between chapters, but now I've got the ball rolling. This was a bit more plot-oriented than the last one, but things will actually start to happen in the next chapter. Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Just realized it was the Angel Gabriel that died, not Ithuriel. Whoops.

**Author's Note:**

> What a mid-series finale! I'm not sure what happened exactly for me to start writing fic again, but I have so many feelings about all of this, especially Magnus! Share your thoughts in the comments, or chat with me on [tumblr](http://magnusclarys.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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